The Housekeeping School

# Chapter 1: The Housekeeping School

The morning light fell in pale stripes across the cobblestones as Elena walked through the iron gates of the Kaunas School for Future Homemakers. The building rose before her like a stern grandmother—tall, gray, and unyielding, its windows arranged in neat rows that seemed to count the girls as they passed beneath them.

She clutched the strap of her satchel until her knuckles whitened. Around her, other girls moved with purpose, their footsteps quick and certain on the worn stone steps. They knew where they were going. They knew what they were becoming.

Elena did not.

The entrance hall smelled of beeswax and boiled cabbage, a combination that would come to define her days here. Portraits of serious women in high-collared blouses lined the walls, their painted eyes following every girl who entered. Beneath each portrait, a brass plaque announced their accomplishments: *Exemplary Housekeeper, 1923* or *Master of Domestic Economy, 1927*. Elena wondered if any of them had ever felt the knot that was now forming in her stomach—tight and hot, like a fist closing around something fragile.

"First-year students to the assembly hall!" A woman's voice rang out across the corridor, sharp as a knife against glass.

Elena followed the current of navy-blue skirts and white aprons, letting herself be carried along. The assembly hall was vast, with tall windows that faced the street. Through them, she could see the ordinary world passing by—a man selling apples from a cart, a woman carrying a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, children running toward the river. That world seemed so close, and yet already so far away.

"Find your seat quickly, girls. Quickly!"

The woman who had spoken stood at the front of the hall, her posture so straight she seemed carved from wood. She wore a dark dress with a silver brooch at her throat, and her gray hair was pulled back so tightly that her eyebrows appeared permanently raised in disapproval.

"That is Signora Petrova," whispered the girl beside Elena. "She runs the practical training. My sister had her. She can tell if your stitching is off from across the room."

Elena looked at the girl who had spoken. She had round cheeks and bright eyes, and her hands were already folded neatly in her lap, as if she had been practicing this pose her whole life.

"I'm Marta," the girl said, extending a hand.

"Elena."

"Where are you from, Elena?"

"From the old town. Near the market."

Marta nodded as if this explained everything. "I'm from the suburbs. My father is a baker. He says a girl who can run a home is a girl who can run her life."

Elena wanted to ask if that was what Marta believed too, but Signora Petrova had begun to speak, and her voice filled every corner of the hall.

"Welcome to the Kaunas School for Future Homemakers," she said, her accent crisp and formal. "You have been chosen to receive an education that will prepare you for the most important role a woman can fulfill: the care and management of her home and family."

She paused, letting her gaze travel across the rows of young faces. When her eyes reached Elena, they lingered for just a moment longer than necessary.

"Here, you will learn the arts of cooking, cleaning, sewing, and budgeting. You will learn how to host guests, how to manage servants, how to raise children with discipline and kindness. You will learn to be the backbone of your household, the quiet strength upon which your husband and children will rely."

Elena felt the knot in her stomach tighten. The words sounded like a cage being built around her, bar by bar.

"Some of you may think this work is simple," Signora Petrova continued. "It is not. It requires patience, precision, and a willingness to put the needs of others before your own. It requires you to be strong when others are weak, to be calm when others are panicked, to be wise when others are foolish. This is not a small thing. This is the foundation of society itself."

She clasped her hands in front of her and smiled—a thin, practiced smile that did not reach her eyes.

"Now, let us begin."

---

The first lesson was sewing.

They sat in a long room filled with wooden tables, each one equipped with a needle, thread, and a square of white fabric. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

"Today, you will learn the running stitch," Signora Petrova announced, walking between the tables. "It is the simplest of stitches, but it is also the most important. A poorly made running stitch will unravel. A well-made one will hold for years."

Elena picked up the needle and threaded it carefully, as she had been taught by her mother many years ago. But when she tried to push it through the fabric, her fingers felt clumsy, and the stitch came out crooked and uneven.

"Too tight," said a voice beside her. Marta was leaning over, examining her work. "You're pulling too hard. Let the thread breathe a little."

Elena tried again, but the knot in her stomach seemed to have traveled to her hands, making them tremble.

"Like this," Marta said, demonstrating with quick, confident movements. Her stitches were perfect—even and small, like a row of tiny soldiers marching across the cloth.

"Where did you learn to sew like that?" Elena asked.

"My mother taught me. She says a woman should always be prepared." Marta smiled, but there was something in her eyes that made Elena wonder if she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.

Across the room, another girl had finished her square and was holding it up for inspection. Signora Petrova examined it closely, nodding with approval.

"Excellent work, Ona. You have a natural gift."

The girl blushed with pleasure, and Elena felt a pang of something she didn't want to name. Envy, perhaps. Or loneliness.

She looked down at her own crooked stitches and thought of the book hidden in her satchel—a collection of poems she had borrowed from the library without telling her mother. She had read it late into the night, by candlelight, letting the words carry her to places she had never seen: mountains and oceans, cities where the streets were paved with stories.

What would Signora Petrova say if she knew? What would Marta think?

---

At lunch, they gathered in the dining hall, a large room with long wooden tables and benches. The meal was simple—potato soup with bread—but the girls ate with enthusiasm, their voices rising in a cheerful hum.

Elena sat at the end of a table, poking at her soup with a spoon. She wasn't hungry.

"Are you not eating?" Marta sat down beside her, carrying a tray piled high with bread and cheese.

"I'm not very hungry."

"You should eat. The afternoon lessons are long, and Signora Petrova doesn't like it when girls faint."

Elena forced herself to take a bite. The soup was warm and salty, and she realized, with some surprise, that she was hungrier than she thought.

"Tell me about yourself," Marta said, breaking off a piece of bread. "Do you have brothers? Sisters?"

"An older brother. He works at the printing press."

"Printing? That sounds interesting."

Elena nodded. "He brings home books sometimes. Stories from other countries. I like to read them."

Marta's eyebrows rose. "Stories? What kind of stories?"

"Adventures, mostly. About people who travel to faraway places and discover new things."

Marta was quiet for a moment, chewing her bread thoughtfully. "I've never thought much about traveling," she said finally. "My mother says the best adventures are the ones you have at home, with the people you love."

Elena wanted to argue, but she didn't know how. The words felt trapped in her throat, tangled with the knot that had been growing in her stomach all morning.

"Maybe," she said, and took another bite of soup.

---

The afternoon lesson was cooking.

They stood in a large kitchen, each girl stationed at a wooden counter with a bowl, a whisk, and a basket of ingredients. The air was thick with the smell of flour and yeast, and the windows were fogged with steam from the large pots bubbling on the stove.

"Today, you will learn to make *kugelis*," Signora Petrova announced. "It is a simple dish, but it requires patience and attention to detail. A good *kugelis* is golden on the outside, soft on the inside, and seasoned with just the right amount of salt and pepper."

She demonstrated the process, her hands moving with practiced ease. Grate the potatoes. Squeeze out the water. Add the onions, the eggs, the flour. Mix until smooth. Pour into the pan. Bake until golden.

Elena tried to follow along, but her potatoes came out uneven, some too thick, others too thin. When she squeezed out the water, she squeezed too hard, and the mixture became dry and crumbly.

"Not like that," said a girl beside her, watching with barely concealed amusement. "You're ruining it."

Elena felt her face grow hot. "I'm trying."

"Try harder."

Before she could respond, Signora Petrova appeared at her side, her expression unreadable.

"Show me your hands," she said.

Elena held them out, still covered in potato starch.

"Too tense," Signora Petrova said. "Cooking is not a battle. It is a conversation. You must listen to the ingredients, feel what they need. If you fight them, they will fight you back."

She took Elena's hands in her own, guiding them to the bowl. "Softer. Let the potatoes tell you what they want to become."

For a moment, Elena felt something shift inside her. The knot in her stomach loosened, just a little. She let her hands move more gently, letting the mixture come together on its own.

"Better," Signora Petrova said, and moved on to the next student.

Elena looked down at her bowl. The mixture was still imperfect, but it was better. She had done something right.

---

The evening came quickly, bringing with it a cool breeze that swept through the open windows of the dormitory. The girls slept in a long room lined with iron beds, each one covered with a thin blanket and a flat pillow.

Elena lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The other girls were talking, laughing, sharing stories about their families and their hopes for the future. Marta was describing the wedding she dreamed of—a white dress, a church full of flowers, a husband who would take her to a small house with a garden.

"And you, Elena?" Marta called across the room. "What do you dream of?"

Elena hesitated. The truth felt too big, too strange, too dangerous to speak aloud. She thought of the book of poems in her satchel, of the mountains and oceans she had never seen, of the life she could almost imagine but couldn't quite reach.

"I don't know yet," she said.

Marta laughed, a warm sound that filled the room. "That's all right. You have time to figure it out."

But as Elena lay in the darkness, listening to the breathing of the other girls, she wondered if that was true. The school was a machine designed to shape her into something specific—a homemaker, a wife, a mother. Every lesson, every exercise, every word from Signora Petrova was a step toward that future.

And yet, somewhere deep inside her, a small voice whispered a different possibility. A voice that spoke of books and journeys and the wide, waiting world beyond the gates of the Kaunas School for Future Homemakers.

She closed her eyes and let the voice grow louder, just for a moment, before the morning came and the lessons began again.